


and the snake whisper your deepest desires

by athellos



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Crowley-centric (Good Omens), Don't copy to another site, Fluff, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Internal Monologue, No Betas We Fall Like Crowley, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), They/Them Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), and whispered things to him, based on the idea, crowley's ofc, episode three style bay bee, i also hate sigil, just like he whispered to eve, of what if crowleys temple tattoo was sentinent, plus other time periods of my liking, poorly researched im sorry, sigil is a bastard and i love them very much, trigger warning on notes, who knows - Freeform, will be continued???
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:47:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25063378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athellos/pseuds/athellos
Summary: Crawley watches in astonished silence as the lines squirm, and twist. The snake is no longer looking downwards, but forward, as if it’s watching itself on the water’s reflection too.“Ohhhh, blesssssss it,”  it whispers in a low hiss. “I thhhought I’d be bigger.”“What in Satan’s name—” Crawley exclaims in surprise. “Whatareyou?!”The snake doesn’t dignify his question with an answer; instead, it starts to loop around itself and over Crawley’s skin, as if it is exploring this new place where it finds itself.“Oh!” the little menace whispers, delighted, and starts to coil back into the side of his face, and slithering over itself in a series of loops—“That’s my name,” notes Crawley. “My real name.”His demonic name, that is. The one no one would be able to pronounce in this plane of existence. The one given to him in his Fall.“I’m your ssssssssigil,” and weirdly enough, the little thing manages to sound excited, even through the low hissing in which it talks.------first chapter has been edited! i recommend a re-read uwu
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 34





	1. piano piano

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!! posting this since it's been on my google drive for forever now. if you enjoy it, please be sure to tell me!! @demonaria on twitter, who knows, you might actually help me get the energy i need to finish this.
> 
> anyways, nothing too graphic here, but the deaths of those who didn't get on the ark are mentioned.

**_EDEN, 4004 BC._ **

Strange, having a human body. Crawley can't get quite used to it yet.

He never used to find himself craving a dip in the clear water or a bite of the juiciest fruit hanging from a tree nearby. Those weren't things a demon, or an angel for that matter, needed. He guessed giving in to these human desires counted somewhere in the realm of the capital sins, so he didn't really care.

Except he absolutely did.

He spent several days and nights watching the imposing walls of Eden from the outside. 

Uriel was stationed at the Southern Gate; he vaguely recognized the cherub from the blinding white of Heaven, even if Crawley's memories of it are at best, fuzzy.

On the Western and Northern Gates, Cassiel and Anael stood guard, respectively.

These three angels, although ranking differently in the Heavenly hierarchy, had one thing in common: unwavering tenacity when it came to the Almighty's orders.

He saw it in Cassiel's bored look as they spun around with their bow and arrow, going from one end of the Gate to the other; their usually military stiff back slightly slouched under the scorching desert sun.

It was obvious on Uriel's pearly skin, as they discreetly fanned their neck and left their lance to rest on their shoulder.

It shined through in Anael's slouched form as they sat on the wall's edge and looked blankly to the expanses of sand rolling into the horizon.

Crystal clear: these angels knew of the necessities a human body demanded even if the being inhabiting them could very well survive without giving in to any of them. They felt it, and they righteously fought it.

The guardian of the Eastern Gate, however, was another story.

Crowley didn't know their name, and he didn't recognize them from more peaceful times. But he watches, as he waits for an opening, how the angel gazes inside Eden, and barely to the desert. How they sit on the edge of the gate, flaming sword forgotten by their side, and take in the magnificence of creation. How they stare as the sun rises every morning, as if it was born from the desert, and how it sets behind the Western wall. They sing, and birds of the most colorful plumage flock to them to join them in song. How they smile.

They give in, eventually. Crawley takes his chance.

As he sneaks through the unguarded Eastern Gate, he learns his name. Eve calls him  _ Aziraphale _ , after he graces her with a song, just by the edge of the water, where he dips his toes and soaks up the sun.

Crawley secretly wonders if that ache within him is human born too.

\-----------------------

Crawley knows exactly why the first temptation worked as well as it did, and it never had much to do with what he did.

It all came back to Eve.

A kindred soul.

Humans would go on later to demonize her, make her the culprit of all human despair, the first sinner, the one that got them thrown off paradise.

_ Without Eve,  _ the most introspective could say,  _ there’d be no sin, no murder, no blasphemy. Without Eve there’s be no lust, nor greed or wrath, divine or otherwise. Without Eve, humanity would have been different. _

They’re not exactly wrong.

But they ignore that without Eve, there wouldn’t be agriculture, or farming, or cities and cars, trains; there would be no swimming to the depths of the ocean and no flying high in the skies. There’d be no electricity and no cable, no beautiful stories to read or see acted out live. No landing on the moon, no transatlantic voyages, no dancing, and no songs, or instruments to play them with. There wouldn’t be humans like we know them today.

Because, at the heart of it all, it wasn’t the difference between good and evil what drove her to take the first bite. It was her desire for _ knowledge. _

And Crawley can understand that. He’s been Fallen for a reason, after all. 

(Not that he thinks that was fair.)

She only needed a nudge, the longing was all under her skin anyways, hidden behind wandering eyes to treetops and plum reds.

_ All in the genes _ , he thinks.

And quite literally, all Crawley needed to do is nudge her with his head. He bumped her shoulder with his snout, leaned in close to her ear, and told her “What’s stopping you?”

And she bit.

He’s sneaking away, through the foliage, where he can go rest. He distantly hears her call for Adam to come see, _ come taste. The sweetest of all flavors. _

He muses about where to go; the sun is about to set and it tends to get a little bit too chilly for a cold-blooded snake to lay out in the open. But he’s terribly curious about some little flowers he saw on his way, near the south-eastern wall, and he needs to go inspect them; so he decides to turn to his human corporation.

That’s a mistake.

As soon as one long spine sprouts limbs, a terrible pain attacks the side of his face, as if a thousand tiny bees have suddenly developed a grudge against the Snake of Eden and charged forward stingers first.

His hand slaps over his right side as he hisses.

“What the—?!”

What he doesn’t expect, is exactly what he gets: a reply.

_ “That’ssssssssss not niccceeee…” _

Crawley turns around, startled, looking for the owner of the voice. When he doesn’t find them, he hisses threateningly.

“Whoever that  _ wassss _ , you’re dealing with a demon. I would run if I were you.”

The stranger huffs, amused.

_ “Over hhhhere, idiot.” _

And then he feels it: the low-thrumming energy, coming from his lower temple, twisting and sliding just beneath his skin, tiny.

He sprints to the closest pond.

When he reaches it and peaks into his reflection, he finds it: right there, right beside his ear, the littlest snake etched into his skin in black.

But the fact that a strange being is tattooed into his skin is not the only startling fact about this situation: the snake can also move.

Crawley watches in astonished silence as the lines squirm, and twist. The snake is no longer looking downwards, but forward, as if it’s watching itself on the water’s reflection too.

_ “Ohhhh, blesssssss it,” _ it whispers in a low hiss.  _ “I thhhought I’d be bigger.” _

“What in Satan’s name—” Crawley exclaims in surprise. “What are you?!”

The snake doesn’t dignify his question with an answer; instead, it starts to loop around itself and over Crawley’s skin, as if it is exploring this new place where it finds itself.

_ “Your ssssskin is sssssmooth” it observes. “I can ssssslide eassssily.” _

Crawley tries to form words that come out as gibberish. This snake is already getting on his nerves.

“I’m not gonna ask again, what are you?”

_ “Oh!” _ the little menace whispers, delighted, and starts to coil back into the side of his face, and slithering over itself in a series of loops—

“That’s my name,” notes Crawley. “My real name.”

His demonic name, that is. The one no one would be able to pronounce in this plane of existence. The one given to him in his Fall.

_ “I’m your ssssssssigil,” _ and weirdly enough, the little thing manages to sound excited, even through the low hissing in which it talks.

Crawley sits back down by the water and frowns. “My sigil?”

_ “Yessssss.” _

“And why on Earth do _ I _ have a sigil?”

The sigil twists back around his ear and pokes its head below his earlobe, doing a motion that could resemble a shrug, were it to actually have shoulders. Crawley is keenly aware of the fact that he’s no longer watching himself in the water, yet knows exactly where and what the snake is doing.

_ “I don’t know… I was jusssst ssssent here. I jusssst know I’m your sssssigil ''  _ it replies, nonchalantly.

A million questions run through Crawley’s head. _ Sent? Sent by who? Hell, as a reward? Heaven, as a punishment?  _

_ By  _ Them _? _

Crawley sets his jaw straight. “Why are you here?”

_ “I’m hhhere.... To be your ssssigil… Now, if you don’t mind, getting here exzzzhaussssted me. I’ll be taking a nap.” _

Crawley doesn’t want the sigil to take a nap, he needs answers to his questions. But before he can utter another word, the little snake is back to coiling itself, spelling his demonic name, and immovable. He tries to poke it, scratch it, talk to it, call its attention in any way possible, from screaming to whispering, to turning his tongue into a forked one and hissing.

Nothing works. It stays put, unwavering.

He groans in frustration and decides he no longer wants to reside his human corporation,  _ thank you _ , so he turns back into a snake and decides to find a toasty nook where he, too, can nap, but not before peering at himself back in the water.

At least the little menace isn’t there when he’s a snake.

\-----------------

Adam and Eve are banished the next morning, but he doesn’t find out until close to midday, at least.

He was having a lazy morning, crawling around tree-tops, and sunbathing near a river, when the sudden noise of rocks falling apart catches his attention.

_ That’s new _ , he thinks to himself and abandons the morning sun to go investigate.

When he arrives at the Eastern Gate, there’s a huge hole in the wall.  _ Well, that definitely wasn’t there before. _

He hides in the bushes and tries to discern whether it’s safe for him to peek his head out – he doesn't particularly want vengeful angels coming after him. After a couple of minutes, it’s pretty obvious the coast is clear. He slithers the distance between himself and the rubble swiftly.

In the distance, in the scorching sand of the desert, he spots two figures.

_ Oh, _ he laments, secretly,  _ that was me. _

Adam and Eve disappear behind a dune, and Crawley is no longer able to watch them in his direct line of sight. 

He looks up at the wall and sighs. It’s going to be a long way up.

While he crawls, he thinks.

_ They made their choice. I just pointed out they had it in the first place. It’s better this way, isn’t it? Hell’s gonna be delighted I managed to piss off Above so much they kicked them out… _

When he reaches the top he’s thoroughly convinced himself he’s done the right thing —well, the right thing for a demon, which is a bad thing for everyone else. 

But he’s not alone, he notes. Standing on top of the wall, watching Adam and Eve leave Eden, is the Guardian of the Eastern Gate.

_ There he is _ , his mind uselessly asserts 

He idly wonders what the angel that ate peaches and enjoyed swims would do in the presence of a demon

_ Only one way to find out. _

Crawley turns back into a human.

“Well, that went down like a lead balloon,” he says, but it sounds too much like a hiss still.

The angel, dressed in white robes and with hair that could mimic a halo, replies, “Sorry, what was that?”

“I said, ‘Well, that went down like a lead balloon.’”

The angel finally turns to look at him. Crawley expects something like divine rage and the threat of a smiting.

Instead, the angel says, “Oh. Yes, it did, rather.”

Crawley finds himself amused. _ What an odd one. _ Immediately, he gets the desire to push further, see how long it takes for Aziraphale to snap at him.

“Bit of an overreaction, if you ask me. First offense and everything. And I can’t see what’s so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil, anyway.”

The angel frowns. “It must BE bad, Crawley. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have tempted them into it.”

Crawley raises his eyebrows; this angel knows exactly who he is talking to.

“They just said, ‘Get up there, make some trouble’”

“Obviously. You’re a demon. It’s what you do.”

It might be, but that doesn’t mean Crawley doesn’t take offense. He presses further.

“Not very subtle of the Almighty, though. Fruit tree in the middle of a garden, with a ‘don’t touch’ sign. I mean, why not put it on top of a high mountain or on the moon? Makes you wonder what God’s really planning.”

Now Aziraphale looks uncomfortable.

“Best not to speculate. It’s all part of the Great Plan. It’s not for us to understand. It’s ineffable.”

_ Huh?  _ “The Great Plan’s ineffable?”

“Exactly. And you can’t second-guess ineffability. There’s—” Crawley loses track of what Aziraphale is saying as he feels his sigil slowly waking up. The little snake is not moving much, Crawley can feel it; but it is opening it’s eyes and taking in the situation they find themselves in. Crawley wonders privately, if the thing were to utter a word, would Aziraphale be able to hear it?

_ “Worry not, sssssserpent” _ it hisses, and Crawley tries to mask his alarm as he looks for any clue of Aziraphale hearing anything. But the angel is still talking, ignorant to this development.

“—Er. I don’t like the look of that weather.” Aziraphale continues, as the clouds gather and turn a menacing grey.

_ “Didn’t he have a flaming sssssword?” _

“Didn’t you have a flaming sword?” Crawley found himself repeating, without a thought.

Aziraphale looks the other way, avoiding his gaze. “Er…”

_ “Hmmmm…” _

“You did. It was flaming like anything. What happened to it?” Crawley insists.

“Er…”

Aziraphale looks more flustered by the minute. It makes Crawley feel strangely giddy. (He forgets for a minute demons aren’t supposed to feel giddy.)

“Lost it already, have you?”

Aziraphale concedes defeat.

“I gave it away,” is said in a murmur, as if there’s any avoiding the weight of that sentence.

“You  _ what _ ?!” Crawley exclaims, delighted.

“I gave it  _ away _ !—” Aziraphale begins, face scrunched up in worry. Crawley loses his focus again as the sigil whispers.

_ “Cute.” _

Crawley feels his breath catch in his throat.

_ WHAT?!?! _

“—do hope I didn’t do the wrong thing.”

The Serpent finds himself blurting the first thing that comes to mind. “You’re an angel, I don’t think you  _ can  _ do the wrong thing.”

_ Shit! I do hope that sounded sarcastic. Did it sound sarcastic? It did, it did. Calm down you bloody idiot. _

Aziraphale does not get sarcasm apparently. That, or he caught onto Crawley’s accidental honesty. “Oh! Thank you. It’s been bothering me.”

Crawley feels all the nagging thoughts he’s been having since he saw the first two humans walking away from Eden dancing at the tip of his tongue, dying to get out.

_ “Do it,”  _ the sigil whispers, and it’s like all of Crawley’s resolve shatters.

“I’ve been worrying too. What if I did the right thing, with the whole eat-the-apple business? A demon can get into a lot of trouble for doing the right thing.” _ I’ve said too much. Quick, deflect! _ “Funny, if we both got it wrong, eh? If I did the good thing and you did the bad one.”

Aziraphale begins to smile, the hint of a beautiful laughter about to burst out, when he remembers himself. “No. Not funny at all.”

A crack of thunder rumples Crawley’s feathers. Instantly, water begins falling from the skies as what would be later to be known the first rain on Earth.

(He’d like to say he didn’t cower at the sound, but it did sound an awful lot like the sound Heaven made then it opened beneath his feet and plummeted him down into sulfur.)

As much of a gut reaction taking a step closer to the nearest body —ergo, Aziraphale— was, it seems like the angel had an opposite but complementary one: lifting his wing and giving the demon some shelter.

As Aziraphale continues to muse about inane things, he gets soaking wet, while Crawley remains mostly dry.

The sigil twists and turns in what seems utter contempt. Crawley tries to ignore it.

He wonders, though, how is it possible that the little thing seems to know exactly what he’s thinking about at all times.

\--------------------------------

When the angel leaves, Crawley stays. The sigil seems to be shuddering in anticipation. Crawley gets the feeling it’s waiting for him to finally acknowledge…

He does it.

“Cute?” he asks, out loud.

“ _ Yessssssss… _ ”

_ “Cute?!” _

“ _ That’ssssss what I ssssssssaid… That’ssss what you think… _ ”

Crawley splatters. “I  _ do not _ think that! I’m a demon. I don’t find anything...  _ cute _ , least of all an angel.”

The sigil stays silent.

“Say something you bloody bastard!”

“ _ Think what you pleassssse, ssssserpent… _ ”

The snake goes to sleep, and Crawley is once again left without his answer.

He groans out loud and kicks at the ground. He begrudgingly turns back into a snake and heads for the dessert.

He doesn’t turn back into a human form for a while.

\--------------------------------

**_THE ARK, 3004 BC_ **

_ They’re all gonna die. _

Crowley looks around in desperation. Aziraphale has left already, and he’s standing alone and seeing as the water rises.

It already reaches his knees.

_ They’re all gonna die because They wouldn’t give them a chance. _

_ “They didn’t give you one either,” _ says a tiny voice by his ear. He’s taken to calling it Sigil.

The demon continues to look around as the water rises. He sees families running to the highest hill or climbing trees. He sees the elderly, unable to do much to help themselves.

His throat closes and his eyes sting. Before he knows what he’s doing he’s gotten his wings out and he’s flying.

A few families resist, even when he promises he’s getting the kids to safety. It breaks his heart, but he can’t make himself steal them away from their parents, when they’re all so terrified at the winged man asking to fly away with their offspring.

Other families react differently. 

A mother sobs as she hands him her three year old and begs him to save them.

Some children weren’t near their parents when it happened. Some didn’t have any. He takes them all.

Crowley decides the water running down his cheeks comes from the clouds.

He finds a nook near the lowest levels of the Ark where he can hide them all. Around twenty children, from newborns to thirteen year olds.

He looks at them all: wet, scared, young. Innocent.

_ What could they have ever done to deserve this. _

_ “What did  _ you  _ do…?” _

Crowley snaps his fingers and all children find themselves sleeping.

And then he falls to his knees.

“It’s fine, it’s fine. I’m— I’m going against the Almighty.”

No one replies. He can hear something that sounds oddly like a rat chirping.

“Hell— I’ll tell Hell I stole them to influence them evil,” he takes in a breath, and hugs his knees tight to his chest, his wings enveloping him. “That’s why I did this.”

_ “It isssn’t.” _

A sob wrecks the relative silence in the nook. It’s drowned by the sound of the pouring rain and the roaring skies.

Crowley decides he doesn’t like rain at all.

\------------------------------------

A flutter of wings wakes Crowley.

The children are still sleeping, and it’s still raining, so it has been a few hours at the most.

Aziraphale’s wings are tucked into another plane of reality.

“Came to throw them in the water, did you?” He asks bitterly.

Aziraphale falters. He looks at Crowley’s form, then at the children sleeping just behind him. He looks conflicted. 

He doesn’t speak for a while, but when he does, his hands are fidgeting. “I suppose I can’t thawt your wiles now, can I? It seems I am simply too late.”

Crowley didn’t feel Sigil waking up.  _ “Kind.” _

Aziraphale makes a makeshift torch with a piece of wood and a piece of his own robe. Lights it on fire with his grace and gives it to Crowley.

“I’ll— I’ll be upstairs. I’ve got to oversee Noah. But— I’ll come by, when the children are awake.”

Crowley never replies. He just watches as Aziraphale looks around, seemingly uncomfortable, and turns to leave. 

He watches the spot where Aziraphale disappeared long after he’s gone, torch casting light on his face.

Hissed words echo in his head. 

_ “Kind.” _

\------------------------------------

**_CHINA, 1323 BC_ **

Sigil, as it turns out, is terrible company.

Crowley’s been living in a small  _ zu  _ for the past couple of years and she’s managed to go mostly unnoticed by the locals. She usually sneaks out at night, goes beyond the walls protecting the little community that resides within, and looks at the stars while sitting on the fields. She’s gotten to tempting the guards staked on top of the walls to indulge in whatever sin they’re craving (sloth and lust being high on the list) to achieve this.

Hell wasn’t happy with the state of things in this side of the globe: since the Shang dynasty had taken control, everything was going way too smoothly, and therefore they relocated Crowley there to “make some trouble.”

Crowley didn’t think she was gonna get a commendation for this one.

She thinks it’s rather like Eden, but in reverse: the green outside the walls, and— well, that’s as far as the comparison can go, really. There really wasn’t much outside of Eden before Adam and Eve got cast out, least of all towns.

It’s peaceful here. Her skin itches for something exciting.

_ “You know who’sssss exzzzciting? That angel, Azzzziraphale.” _

_ Ah, there’s the bastard. _

Sigil makes an offended sound.

“He’s an angel. Goody-two-shoes. Nothing exciting about that” Crowley replies, flat. Tonight she’s sitting in her room instead of sneaking out. She doesn’t feel like staring at the stars tonight.

_ “That'ssss not ssstaring, that'sssss longing,” _ corrects Sigil, their tone matter of fact.

Crowley huffs. “Whatever.”

_ “And you know that’ssss not true. He gave hisss sssword away… He’ssss kind… A rogue one, but sssstill holy…” _

“He belongs to Above.”

_ “And yet… he looked ssssso ssssad about the flood… he helped you take care of the children...” _

Crowley grunts. She really doesn’t want to dignify that with an answer.

_ “He’ssss the opposssssite of boring… yet how could you be desssssserving of hissss attention?” _

_ That’s it. _

_ “WAIT!” _

“Nope, you’re shutting up” declares the demon as scales take over her form.

Once she’s a snake, everything is simpler. Sigil disappears and she can have peace and quiet.

That is until someone opens her door and finds a giant snake coiled on the bed. Crowley bails before anyone can discorporate her.

\---------------------------------------------

**_OLYMPIA, 720 BC_ **

Peloponnesos is nice this time of the year, Crowley notes. It’s not awfully warm, yet not cool enough for their serpent self to feel uncomfortable.

They go to see the competitors before entering the Sanctuary of Zeus, trying to see if a demonic influence could make things a little bit more interesting. They had struck up a conversation with one they felt full of Pride, Orsippos, who’s well into bragging about the quality of his carriage, when a divine presence made itself known to them.

They go try to discern if they’re in any real danger of a smiting, leaving Orsippos in the middle of a sentence about having celebratory wine after he wins the race, when Sigil wakes up.

_ “Azzzzziraphale?”  _ they say with an enthusiasm Crowley wishes they could squash. They slap the side of their face slightly, as if to chasten the snake.

“Could be any other angelic bastard,” they remind Sigil, as they search around for the source of the previously sensed power.

Well enough, they spot a mop of white curls. Sigils squirms delighted.  _ “It issss him!” _

“Yes, Sigil, I have eyes.”

Aziraphale is feeding one of the stallions an apple while he chats with a competitor.

_ “Go talk to him!” _

Crowley ducks behind a carriage and scurries out to the Sanctuary as fast as they can.

_ “No, no, no no! What are you doing!? He’sssss over there!” _

Crowley’s a master at pretending they can’t hear Sigil. It exasperates the snake to no end.

_ “Ssssstop moving! You’ll lossse ssssight of him!” _

Crowley isn’t as good at lurking as, say, Ligur, but he’s good enough. Aziraphale doesn’t really notice them even when he enters the Sanctuary and waits with the crowd for the Stallion race to start.

_ “He’sssss right there! Talk to him!” _

In the distance they can see Aziraphale’s furrowed brows as he curiously looks around.

_ Fuck. _

Sigil squeals, or at least tries to.  _ “He knowsss you’re here!”  _

The racers are already on their carriages and ready to start. People wait excitedly to see who’ll be crowned winner of the Olympics this time around.

The stallions start running.

Aziraphale locks eyes with Crowley.

The demon gulps.

Aziraphale smiles.

Orsippos loses his pants.

Sigil gasps.

_ “HE SSSSSAW YOU!” _

Crowley doesn’t stay to see who wins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact i learned while doing the little research i did for this fic: apparently the Olympics in ancient Greece weren't always in the nude. there's a theory that says one of the competitors lost his pants in the middle of a race and it became a tradition after that. i did this research so long ago i don't remember any of the other cool facts i found but i encourage you all to go search that up cause there's definitely some history gems out there


	2. crescendo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You love him.”_
> 
> _Yeah..._
> 
> _WAIT._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for attempted/threats of self harm. nothing too bad happens, but if you think it might be triggering for you, skip reading from  
> "Crowley growls in exasperation. “You said you couldn’t sleep ‘cause there were things still left to say! Whatever that means?!”"  
> to  
> “I’m gonna tell you what I can. Will you sssstop bothering me with thissss after that?”
> 
> that's all!

**_GOLGOTHA, 33 AD_ **

In the past century, Crowley's gotten to sleeping. She guesses it's one of those things that come with having a human body; this one particularly with a proclivity for somnolence.

She doesn't sleep for a month after his Crucifixion, although she tries to no avail.

She stares at the ceiling, and when that's not enough, goes out to the desert and stares at the stars.

"Why?" she asks in a whisper. That's all the energy she can muster at the moment.

The open sky stares back at her, unblinking. She traces the constellations with her gaze, as if the answers to questions long asked could lay in between the stardust. Her wings are still stained with it, and deep down she knows she won't find them there. 

She wishes, nonetheless, that she could get them. That there was actually a reason behind all of this, something more than just plain cruelty.

And then her chest aches. She's ashamed of herself. A demon, drowning in sorrow? _Not very fitting, is it?_

She didn't fit in Heaven either.

She wonders _where_ , then. _Where do I belong?_

_\-----------------------------_

**_ROME, 41 AD_ **

It’s been eight years since Golgotha. 

Crowley’s been wondering for eight years if any of it is worth it at all. Birth, death; construction, destruction; good, evil. What’s the point of it all? What’s the bloody fucking _Plan_?

It’s twisted, that’s what it is. God has a son and lets him die. God has angels and makes them fall.

_“It isssss, isssn’t it?”_ whispers Sigil. Crowley promptly ignores them and continues his way into a drinking establishment he’s never seen before; when he reaches the counter he sits down in a barstool.

“What have you got?” he asks the bartender, a young woman with an attitude. She very unkindly points to the drinks. 

It should be right up his alley, being an asshole that is. It’s not. But Hell doesn’t need to know that.

_“Isssn’t it ssssad? Weren’t humanssss ssssuppossed to be friendly creaturesss?”_

He ends up ordering a jug of house brown.

_“Of courssse, you know why they aren’t…”_

_Do you ever shut up?_ He thinks.

_“I’m afraid not, serpent.”_

The demon grunts. Sigil could be good company, when they wanted to. At least when they were awake, that is. Not so much recently, though.

Now they just say stuff like—

_“Don’t you wish you could tell Them, though? Assssk them? Why wasssn’t he worth ssssaving? Why weren’t you—”_

“Crawley?”

Sigil screeches to a halt, and so does Crowley as he turns around and gets blinded by light: a white toga and blonde hair that almost looks like a halo and—

A being of light. And love.

_“Ssssso oppossssite to you…”_

Right.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale corrects himself. He plasters on a beaming smile and Crowley thinks that weren’t it for the tinted crystals obscuring his vision, he’d wince at how bright it is.

“Fancy,” the angel begins as he sits down beside him, “running into you here!”

Crowley takes a sip of his jug, his lack of a response jumpstarting Aziraphale into speaking again.

“Still a demon, then?” he says as sunny as he can accomplish, and Crowley can feel the irritation taking over him.

“What kind of a stupid question is that? ‘Still a demon?’ What else am I gonna be, an aardvark?”

Aziraphale looks a bit taken aback, but not any less happy. “Just trying to make conversation.”

“Well, don’t,” he says, final, and expects Aziraphale to leave him alone after that. 

The angel, instead, stays seated beside him and flashes him a shy, and slightly hurt smile. Crowley immediately feels guilty about being rude to Aziraphale. He likes the angel, and he’s not the reason he’s mad at the world right now, even if he’s on the side that’s cast him out.

_“But he’ssss never been quite like the otherssss, hassss he?”_

Crowley sighs.

“Cup of wine?” he offers. “It’s the house’s wine— dark.” He then turns to the bartender without waiting for an answer and asks for a cup for Aziraphale.

The angel looks delighted as he raises his cup and exclaims “ _Salutaria_!” before taking a sip. He makes a contented sigh and then asks, “In Rome for long?”

“Just nipped in for a quick temptation” Crowley replies in a flat tone.

“Tempting anyone special?” asks Aziraphale, as if the news of a demon doing his job could ever be immensely amusing to an angel.

“Emperor Caligula. Frankly, he doesn’t need any tempting to be appalling. Going to report it back to head office as a flaming success. You?”

Aziraphale puts on a smile that looks rather forced, Crowley guesses he has other things he’s rather be doing than whatever job they gave him this time. “They want me to influence a boy called Nero. I thought I’d get him interested in music. Improve him”

Crowley shrugs. “Couldn’t hurt. So what else are you up to while you’re in Rome?”

At that, Aziraphale genuinely beams. “I thought I’d go to Petronius’s new restaurant. I hear he does remarkable things to oysters.”

“I’ve never eaten an oyster before,” Crowley confesses, just because. He’s never been much for food, though he’s tried a few things here and there. If he’s being honest, he’s just terribly picky.

Aziraphale looks surprised (and kind of offended, if one must admit), but his expression immediately shifts to utter joy.

“Oh! Oh, well let me tempt you to—!” He stops in his tracks, looking very embarrassed. Crowley turns to look at him with raised eyebrows and tries to suppress a smile. “Oh, right— That’s your job, isn’t it?” He smiles as a lovely pink takes over his cheeks.

_“You love him.”_

_Yeah..._

_WAIT._

Silence reigns as Aziraphale continues to fuss, embarrassed, and Crowley attempts to reboot his system.

“Ngk. I mean—? Uh, sure, why not,” is what comes out of his mouth as Aziraphale turns some devilishly angelic blue eyes on him. It's not as calm and collected as Crowley was aiming for.

“Wonderful!” Aziraphale says as he claps his hands and stands up in a flurry, starting to tell Crowley about the way he heard Petronius apparently seasons the oysters and how he cooks them— but Crowley isn’t listening to him.

It takes him about five seconds to notice he should be following Aziraphale out of the tavern, and when he does he takes long steps to catch up. But while he does this, he scratches his side with all the might he possesses in his fingers.

_“Ouch! You basssstard!”_

_I’m a demon. Not capable of love._

_“Ssssstop ssssscratching me!”_

_Go to sleep, you bloody bastard!_

_“I can’t, you bloody idiot! There’ssss_ thingsss _left to sssssay!”_

At that, Crowley lifts his hand.

_What do you mean?_

_“Oh, bollockssss. I’ve ssssaid too much,”_ whispers Sigil. Crowley is about demand Sigil explains themselves, when Aziraphale brushes his hand on Crowley’s forearm.

“Are you okay, dear?” he asks, genuine concern of his features. “You weren’t listening.”

Crowley gives Sigil one last painful scratch to let them know he’s not done with them and turns his attention fully on Aziraphale. “Yes. You were saying about olive oil?”

\--------------------------------------------------

When he finally parts ways with Aziraphale, he finds himself alone, in his room, staring at a hand mirror.

“Are you going to talk _now_?”

_“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,”_ says Sigil as they avoid Crowley’s fingers by looping around his ear.

“Don’t play stupid with me, you little bastard. I will carve you out of my skin, that’s a threat.”

At that, Sigil peeks their whole head out. _“Try it, it won’t do you much. I’m not part of your ssssskin, you know.”_

“Just fucking explain. How long have you been there, four millenia? You haven’t given me one bloody answer.”

_“Becaussssse I’m not ssssupposssed to!”_

“ _Who_ , Sigil? Who sent you? _Why_ are you not supposed to?”

_“Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you! It jussst doesn’t work like that!”_

Crowley growls in exasperation. “You said you couldn’t sleep ‘cause there were things still left to say! Whatever that means?!”

_“Crowley, I ca—”_

In a moment of fury, Crowley breaks the mirror in his hand against the wall and picks the pointiest shard in his hand with too much force, cutting his palms slightly as he does so. He looks in the broken mirror and points the shard to Sigil. “Just _bloodly out with it_!”

Sigil remains silent as they coil themselves back into his lower temple.

_“Look,”_ the serpent sighs, _“I am part of you, and I’m not. You’re only going to hurt yourssself.”_

Crowley keeps the shards raised and his jaw tight.

_“I’m gonna tell you what I can. Will you sssstop bothering me with thissss after that?”_

“No promises” mutters Crowley.

_“I have a job, and I intend to keep doing it. The thingssss I sssssay— they don’t come from me. They're just already there for me to say.”_

_… Already there?_

_“Assss you heard. Now, do you intend to mutilate yourssssself or can I finally go to ssssleep?”_

Crowley drops both his hand and the broken mirror with them. Sigil takes the chance to go back to his resting position and promptly pass out.

\---------------------------------------------------------

**YAX MUTUAL, MAYA EMPIRE, 246 AD**

Already there. Already there. Already there.

"YOU THINK IT'S _SO_ FUNNY, DON'T YOU?"

Already there. Already there. Already there.

"YOU KICK ME OUT AND THEN DECIDE TO TORMENT ME BY TALKING IN MY EAR THROUGH A LOUSY, ANNOYING LITTLE SNAKE, HUH?"

_"Hey!"_

_Shut the FUCK up, Sigil._

Already there. Already there. Already there.

"YOU DECIDED TO REMIND ME EVERYDAY WHY I AM WORTHLESS? OH IF ONLY YOU _KNEW_ HOW VALUABLE _I_ _AM_ TO HELL!"

  
  


Already there.

  
  
  


Already there. 

  
  
  
  


Already there.

  
  
  
  


"And what am I to you, Mother? But the consequence of everything that should have gone right and went awry?" 

  
  
  


Crowley sobs.

  
  


**THE KINGDOM OF WESSEX, 537 AD**

_"What do you thhhink Azzzzziraphale issss doing?"_

Crowley sighs and continues to put his armor on.

_"Do you thhhink he'ssss clossse by?"_

Crowley looks at his mare with caution not to make eye contact and freak her out. Again.

_"Don't you want to sssssee him?"_

He mounts and his second in command signals for the rest of their group to follow along.

_"Ah, do you even remember the way hissss hair curlssss? The exact shade of blue hisssss eyessss are? The calm aura that he alwayssss hassss?"_

Crowley grunts.

_"Ssssso ssssoothing. Don't you want to bassssk in it? I bet, if he let you get close enough, he'd be warmer than the ssssun."_

He wishes his helmet did anything to stop the incessant babbling that's become Sigil's usual. He still wonders why God thinks reminding him of Aziraphale's goodness will work to make him feel bad about being a demon.

_‘Cause since I am a demon I can't be by his side._

_"Oh, you've beat me to it!"_

Sigil usually doesn't shut up, but in the last five hundred years he's been unable to zip it about Aziraphale.

To Sigil's dismay, Crowley hasn't seen Aziraphale since that day in Rome, and doubts he will see him anytime soon. Too much stuff happening all at once, all over the world, for them to coincide once again.

They travel as soon as the sun rises, and plan to stop for some rest at lunch. They have been doing so for the past three days and should do so for two more, if everything goes according to plan. Crowley already aches to set up camp again: this bloody island knows nothing but humidity that crawls inside your bones to freeze them, and leave you aching in your blessed uncomfortably stiff armor. _Who even designed these?_

Except this morning one of his scouts hurries back to tell him an Arthurian knight is asking for a word with him.

His soldiers hide in the mist and watch with rapt attention as he steps down from his mare and tells his scout to bring the knight along.

“Oh. Right. Hello. I was hoping to meet the Black Knight” the Sir exclaims with politeness that sounds—

Sigil perks up.

“You have sought the Black Knight, foolish one. But you have found your death.”

Sigil holds their breath.

A beat. Then:

The knight removes his helm.

“Is that you under there, Crawley?”

_“IT ISSS HIM!”_

Crowley wants to be mad. He finds he can’t quite bring himself to be.

“Crowley,” he corrects.

“What on Earth are you playing at?” Aziraphale asks, his tone genuinely curious.

He sighs, and turns to his soldiers. “It’s alright, lads. I know him. He’s alright.” He turns back to the angel and tries to ignore the weird feeling the sight causes in his stomach. “I’m here spreading foment.”

Aziraphale tilts his head in confusion. “Is that a kind of porridge?”

“No! I’m, you know, fomenting dissent and discord. King Arthur’s spread a bit too much peace and tranquility in the land. So I’m here, you know… fomenting.”

_“You turn sssssso sssstupid when he’ssss around…”_

_Shut THE FUCK UP, Sigil!_

“I’m, er, meant to be fomenting peace,” Aziraphale comments, as if it wasn’t a given.

Crowley raises his eyebrows. “So we’re both working very hard in damp places and cancelling each other out?”

Aziraphale opens his mouth, probably to protest, but then he closes it. After a second, he admits, “You could put it like that. It is a bit damp.”

_“That makesssss no ssssssense! You both could be doing anything elssssse then!”_

_… point for Sigil._

“It’d be easier if we both stayed home, and just sent messages back to our head offices saying we had done everything they asked for, wouldn’t it?”

Aziraphale looks bewildered by the idea. “That would be lying!”

He hums. “Possibly. But the end result would be the same. We cancel each other out.”

For a second, it looks like the angel is considering it. “But my dear fellow… they’d check! Michael is a bit of a stickler. And you do not want Gabriel upset with you.”

He shrugs, nonchalant. “My lot have more to do than verify compliance reports from Earth. As long as they get the paperwork, they seem happy enough, I mean as long as you’re being seen doing something now and again…”

For a few seconds, Aziraphale just looks at him. 

_“He’ssss conssssidering it! He might sssssay yesss!”_

And then.

“No! Absolutely not! I am shocked that you would even imply such a thing. We are not having this conversation. Not another word.”

“Right.” Crowley replies, disappointed. Why’d he ever think the angel would agree…

_“You jusssssst want an exzzzzcuse to sssssssee him again…”_

Crowley doesn’t dignify that with an answer, and he watches Aziraphale turn around and exclaim a final, “Right,” over his shoulder. Or well, as much as anyone can say anything over their shoulder in 6th century armor.

\-----------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you enjoy it, please be sure to tell me!! @demonaria on twitter, who knows, you might actually help me get the energy i need to finish this!


End file.
